


Rough Fingers on Soft Fabric

by CaptainSaku



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff? I want to say fluff but also not really, implied sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 16:31:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7515214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainSaku/pseuds/CaptainSaku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a fête in Val Royeaux. Now that it is done, they get to spend some time together. Picture of a moment of intimacy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rough Fingers on Soft Fabric

**Author's Note:**

> Lord, this has been sitting in my drafts for well over a year. It was time I finished it.   
> A HUGE shout-out to the best Beta I could have ever asked for, ksilverland. Love you, dear!

Rough fingers on soft fabric. That’s how it starts; a slow, careful game neither ever imagined they would be playing. Not together, at least.

She had always wanted to wear an Orlesian dress. As representative for her Clan, she had often come into contact with prominent names in fine silks and brocade, in gold trimming and wide hats, in feathers and ribbons and lace and jewels. It was a dazzling display of both beauty and power, complete with ostentatious masks that could perhaps hide a face, but not intent, gestures or tone. Her position, however, had been precarious then; a lavish garment of that nature was an extravagance her Clan could not afford.

She’s the Inquisitor now, and many hail her as the Herald of Andraste—a title she will never accept; the Maker was never her god, nor will he ever be. Her responsibilities are many, as are her burdens, and her name is one that now carries considerable weight. Thus, her presence is greatly valued in a number of social functions she cannot always attend. An invitation to a fête in Val Royeaux, extended by a certain noble person, reached Josephine some time ago, and the Inquisitor decided that she would not only attend, but also take a full complement with her. The display had to be grand; the Inquisition must make an impression. And so it was that she got to wear a dress: a dream of another time come true. A foolish dream, some might say, but there is no shame in taking pleasure in the small things.

The reception was over now. It had come and gone in a flurry of fine silks and carefully placed words, in appearances kept and the subtle nuances of the Game. She was a master of it; The Grand Game offered her no challenge, though it brought her much pleasure.

Delicate hands guide calloused fingers to the first bow that needs undoing. He knows how to work armor and tunics, simple garments he has always been familiar with. Formal wear, on the other hand, poses a challenge, and he most certainly does not know the first thing about the finery worn by women—by Aelwen—in functions of the nature that had transpired a mere hour ago. Her touch is gentle, her smile amused, her eyes bright with mirth as his fingers fumble with the ties. He, for his part, is puzzled, defeated by the intricacy of the design, by layer upon layer of fabric, lace, ribbons, and an underbust he cannot seem to work out. Maker, but she looks beautiful. Not that she was not beautiful before, but this… this is beyond his wildest dreams.

She steals a playful kiss as he stops, tentative, fumbling, afraid that he might tear something by accident. She moves slowly, so slowly, perhaps because she enjoys teasing him, but even more so because she loves the attention, the reverence, the care he takes not to damage her dress. Her hands are soft on his as she guides them to the next set of clasps, the next layer of lace.

Another pause, another stolen kiss. She draws his eyes away from the garment so he will look at her, all warmth and care, honeyed eyes crinkled at the corners; he looks younger than his thirty-two when he smiles, and she seeks to make him smile every chance she gets. Sharp looks dissolve into tenderness, and gentle fingers slip under her chin. He adores her; she can see that in his eyes, in the way he looks at her like she is the most wonderful thing in all of Thedas. She loves him too; he is her safe haven through it all, through the wreckage and turmoil her life has become, a life she now realizes she would not trade for anything in the world.

Because trading her life for one where she isn’t Inquisitor would mean trading her problems away for a life he would never be a part of. A duller, simpler life. A life without him.

Never. She would never accept that. Never a life without Cullen. Never a life without those hard gold eyes only she has seen melt into liquid honey in the odd hours of the night, when they share a space and she catches him staring. Never a life without the feeling of his stubble against her skin, or without that scar on the corner of his lip, pulled taut with one of his rare smiles. Never a life without that stupid, irresistible smirk that makes her breath catch in her throat, without the warmth of his body on a cold night, without the sweet, loving words whispered into her ear in private. Creators preserve her; she has fallen hard for this man, loves him more than she has ever loved anyone else before, and she is glad. Glad that she has found herself here, in his arms, in peace, though reason and reality may dictate that all is not well.

As for him... he loves her, wholeheartedly so. She is beautiful—Maker, is she beautiful, blonde hair coiffed up off her neck and adorned with jewels, stunning blue eyes never leaving his face—and he does not understand how or why she chose  _ him _ , of all people, to be hers. He follows her guidance here, now, with gentle touches and soft, needy kisses, and he thanks the Maker for her. For her, for her guidance, her love, her light in his life. Yes, the Inquisition may need her, but  _ he _ needs her, craves her touch, craves these moments shared together in private. He speaks her name like a prayer, and is grateful to his god for every moment she spends with him.

She hates that their duties demand that these moments be stolen, that there are always pressing matters to attend to. She hates knowing that her departures are necessary, hates having to leave, and in leaving, leave him behind, in full knowledge that he is tormented the entire time she is away. It’s not just the lyrium withdrawal; it’s her, it’s fearing for her life, fearing that something might happen to her and knowing—or believing, rather—that it is entirely his fault, that it was he who sent her away for the “greater good,” for the good of the Inquisition. She wishes it could be different, that she didn’t have to leave for weeks on end after only a few days in Skyhold. She wishes they had met under other circumstances… but then, she wouldn’t be herself. There would be no Inquisition. She would still be the Dalish Liaison Officer for Clan Lavellan and she would still hate shemlen deeply, so much so that it shames her to admit it even now.

And now is the only thing that matters. Here, together. She will make the best of it; she will kiss his every scar, down to the last inch of his rugged, weathered skin. She will revel in his presence, in the way his kisses melt her, leave her weak at the knees and make her heart race in her chest. She will never get used to it, but perhaps it is better if she doesn’t: better to feel a love so strong, so powerful, that she can barely hold herself upright when she’s in his arms. At least for a while, they have time to call their own, time to forget their duties and be themselves, just Cullen and Aelwen, in love and  _ together _ . It is a small luxury they can’t always afford. Tonight, it is brief, no more than a few hours to themselves. She’ll take it.

To him, it’s difficult—watching her go, knowing he must remain—but if this is the cost of keeping her in his life, then he shall gladly bear it. Through the withdrawal and the worry and whatever Corypheus may throw at them, he is with her, and he wouldn’t trade the experience for anything. Without the Inquisition, he may not have known her, may not have begun to believe that he is half the man she seems to believe he is. She believes in him truly, honestly, with no questions asked, and he wishes to live up to that, live up to her. So he’ll take the kisses with the worry, allow himself to drop his guard for her, to let her in, let her  _ know _ him—Aelwen and Cullen; no more, no less,  _ together _ .

And it all comes down to a dress. To here and now, to romance and passion and a love so strong it burns, for a man she wouldn’t have imagined loving a scant few months before. Oh, how the tables turned, how the Dread Wolf had found her and turned her world upside-down. Perhaps, blasphemous as it was, she should be thanking him for it. Everything had been thrown into chaos; this was the path Fen’Harel had chosen for her, and she was  _ glad _ . Because that was the reason she was here, now, with him, in a beautiful Orlesian silk dress, exactly where she’s meant to be. Stealing kisses, guiding rough hands on soft fabric, loving a man her people would never approve of. Fen’Harel might have set her on this path, but Mythal had kept her on it, and she would be damned if she didn’t honor her gods.

Indeed, it all comes down to calloused hands on delicate fabric, scarred lips pressed to the smooth column of her neck, her name uttered like a prayer. Maker’s breath, but she is beautiful, and he loves her. Life has not been kind to him, and she loves him in spite of the ragged edges it’s left behind, in spite of the nightmares and the shaking and the days it’s hard to rouse himself from bed. But they have here, they have now, and he’ll be damned if he ruins such a lovely garment, one she takes such pleasure in—one he takes pleasure in seeing her enjoy. So he’ll fumble between kisses, smooth the folds of fabric away under her instruction, and worship her as she deserves, for she deserves no less.

And neither does he.

Rough fingers on soft fabric; that’s how it started. And with rough fingers on soft skin it will end, in a dance they have danced once, twice, ten times before, and which they hope they will dance again, once the Breach is no more and the world is safe once again.

 


End file.
